They say the Dragonborn Comes, but I've got no clue where you're going
by TheRealSokka
Summary: The Dragonborn can't imagine his journeys without his companions. But once you've travelled with them enough, you can really kiss all dignity and seriousness goodbye. –Inspired by the awesomeness that is the Interesting NPCs mod-


The people crowding around the fire already seem half-drunk. It's supposedly meant to be a feast, but the meat on the table has gone largely unnoticed in favor of alcohol. Cups are raised in toast after toast, bottles from the last shipment are fetched, opened and downed with nary a pause. They have something to celebrate after all. It's not every day you get to plunder one of the richest farms in Skyrim, and even rarer that the owner happens to also own a cellar full of the finest vintage. If the city guards are then in addition too busy with the war to even notice the trouble, well, then it's a perfect day.

Their leader has ordered them to drink themselves blind, and there's no hesitation to obey. What could stop them now? They're invincible.

Nobody notices the slightly darker shadow in the gloom of the cave. Or the muffled footsteps, far too silent for a bandit. The shadow's face is hidden behind a grey cowl matching his armor, making him blend in perfectly with the darkness. Even now that he can count the scars on the leader's face, the man's goons are oblivious, completely drunk on wine and the victory of their raid. Successfully raiding a farm this close to Whiterun has really gone to their head. If they were smart, they'd have double the guards posted at the door for that exact reason, because it's blatantly obvious to anyone that the Jarl won't just let this slide. If they were smart, there would be a lot more torches around so that nobody could creep up on them like this. But then they wouldn't be bandits, would they?

The Dragonborn weighs his options. He could just put a bolt through the leader's skull now, but then he would have everyone else on his heels. He could sneak up on them one by one and reduce their numbers; drunk people, and bandits in particular, can be painfully unobservant. His eyes settle on a half-passed out Bosmer on the fringes of the group, heaving over a barrel. An obvious first target. He smiles a little. They have no idea what is coming for them.

"If you wait for the perfect moment any longer, they won't need you to kill themselves, you know."

If she had any form of appreciation for the situation, this would have been uttered barely above a whisper. As it is, the guards back in Whiterun probably heard her. The Dragonborn's eyes close in a resigned sigh. The rough hissing voice has barely faded before every single human, mer, dog and weapon in the cave turns to face their way, the flickering torchlight illuminating the stealthy Dragonborn and his unimpressed companion. Under shouts in several states of surprise and drunkenness, swords fly out of their sheaths and the next moment the horde is stampeding towards them.

So much for stealth.

The Dragonborn resigns himself to his fate and reaches for his own weapon. Sometimes he wonders why he even bothers. There is such a thing as effectiveness on the job, but some people just can't seem to appreciate that.

" _Fus_ …"

A sharp inhale to his right: "Oh no. Please try not to…"

" _Roh Da!"_

A conglomerate of humans, mer, dogs, weapons, wine bottles and practically everything else that isn't nailed down flies through the cavern. The force of the shout is enough to loosen a boulder from the ceiling, crashing down right into the festive table. A river of wine spills everywhere.

"…bring the entire cave down around us." Anum-La finishes her sentence. The Argonian has her own sword already in hand and with a small grin she has already charged off towards the nearest dazed bandit who is just struggling to get up. Swallowing a reply, the Dragonborn follows suit

It's far from an orderly battle, and pretty much the opposite of what could have been called 'effective'. Not that the bandits present much of a threat in terms of fighting skill, but they make up for that with enthusiasm. "Can I adopt this one?" the Swamp Knight shouts over her shoulder as she faces a particularly drunk Nord who comes at her swinging a bottle of Blackbriars. One quick duck on her part later and it connects perfectly with the temple of a second bandit, throwing both of them off balance.

The Dragonborn has barely time to process this before he has to evade the swing of a huge greatsword. Any adoption plans have to take a back seat for a moment in the face of the giant brute who comes charging at him.

The leader is a tough bastard, having nicked a suit of steel plate armour from some unfortunate victim, and in the end it takes another shout to send him flying into his own traps. Traps they could have exploited so much better, the perfectionist in the Dragonborn can't help but think. He thought that voice had long ago gone mute, or more likely flung itself off a cliff the last time his companion ruined one of his elaborate plans, but apparently it's still there. Not that it had much chance of reaching that perfection anytime soon, at least not in this travelling party.

Anum-La looks over the mess that was a festive celebration just minutes before and nods in satisfaction: "It's good to see more young men taking up a life of crime. More work for us."

It earns her a scolding look: "Do me the favour and don't mention that to Avenicci when I collect our bounty. I don't think he'd be as pleased about it as you are."

"That's because he's a little bureaucrat bore who can't appreciate the little things in life."

To agree with that assessment would be a little undiplomatic for the Thane of Whiterun, so a switch subjects is called for: "And I distinctly remember saying something about stealth before we entered. It doesn't involve talking."

The Swamp Knight bares her fangs, showing a lot more teeth in a gruesome smile: "And dealing with those drunkards doesn't involve stealth. Where is the fun in that? Our Shadowscale would do this sneaking around constantly, and that one smiled maybe once a year, when the stars were right. On a Sundas. When no one could see. Come to think of it, maybe that was just a yawn."

 _How have I ever ended up with this one following me?_ This question routinely pops up after encounters like this, and so far the Dragonborn has not managed to find an answer.

After scooping up the rest of the loot in the cave (and dealing with a stray bandit who somehow has not heard the commotion a few caverns away) the two bounty hunters emerge from the dark passage, to the view of Dragonsreach sitting on its hill. The Dragonborn loads his earnings on a hopelessly overburdened horse and starts north-east. The sun is high in the sky and for once it's neither raining nor snowing. A perfect day for adventure.

A few meters down the road, the inevitable amused hiss comes from behind him: "Whiterun is the other way."

"Yes." he explains patiently. "But there is a Nordic ruin on our way, just over the hills that we can pick up on the way." It's not _on their way_ , exactly, but it's a small enough deviation for them to be back in the hold's capital by dusk. And besides, Andurs is never shy with septims for a few more vanquished draugr.

Effectiveness on the job. Someday it will work.

One river crossing, two hills, an expansive dragon fight and what feels like three bandit camps later, he is starting to admit that they might've gotten a little sidetracked. He's not even sure if they're still in Whiterun hold.

Luckily, he still has his faithful companion to cheer him up.

"Folk keep saying the Dragonborn comes, but I have absolutely no clue where you're going. Should we stop somewhere and ask for directions?"


End file.
